A Gift of the Magi
by Cameron Dial
Summary: Richie Ryan's first Christmas with Duncan MacLeod and Tessa Noel.


A Gift of the Magi  
  
A Highlander Christmas Story in 12 Scenes  
Cameron Dial 

  
  
  
Note: When Richie Ryan first came to live with Duncan MacLeod and Tessa Noel he was just short of his eighteenth birthday. This is the way I picture his first Christmas with Duncan and Tessa. The title, of course, is borrowed from O. Henry.  


Scene 1

  
"Duncan," Tessa said, "what is a carburetor?"  
"A what?" he asked, glancing up at her over the top of the computer monitor. Dressed in a pale pink cowl neck sweater and black stretch leggings, her blonde hair swept up in a ponytail, she was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, puzzling over the sea of pre-Christmas newspaper ads spread out around her.  
"A carburetor," she repeated, wrinkling her nose.  
He fought down a smile. "A what?" he asked again, partly for the fun of hearing her accent as she struggled with the unfamiliar syllables and partly because he could not for a moment imagine what would prompt her to ask such a question. As intelligent and talented as Tessa Noel was, her knowledge of cars amounted to "you step on the gas and it goes." In the dozen years they'd lived together he couldn't remember her even once voicing the slightest interest in things mechanical unless it had to do with the blowtorch she sometimes used in the art studio.  
"A carbur--Duncan MacLeod!" she scolded, realizing she was being teased.  
Getting up, he laughed and crossed the room to her, offering her a hand up. "Now, why would you be asking about carburetors?" he asked, chuckling, as she took his hand and rose effortlessly to stand in the circle of his arms.  
"Because Richie said he needs a new carburetor for his bike," she said. "I thought we could get him one for Christmas."  
"Richie doesn't need a new carburetor for his bike," MacLeod said. "He needs a new bike. And before you ask, no, we can't get him one for Christmas."  
"Why not?" Tessa asked, a bit surprised. Without doubt, Duncan MacLeod was one of the most generous people she had ever known, and they could easily afford such a present. "If he needs one--" she began, but he was shaking his head.  
"What Richie needs is to earn the money himself and buy a new bike when he's able to afford it. Tessa, he makes good money working in the store, more than he would if he were making hamburgers at a fast food restaurant, and he doesn't have rent to pay. When he insisted on buying the used bike I told him it would be nothing but trouble, but he bought it anyway. Now half his money goes to fix it up. If he'd saved what he's spent on repairs in the last six months, he could have put a good down payment on a new one."  
"But, Duncan--" Tessa said. She slipped her arms around his neck, toying with the dark hair he wore loose today. Using her fingers to comb and gather Duncan's shoulder-length hair, she pulled it back into a tidy ponytail that she twisted at the nape of his neck.  
"No, not 'but, Duncan,'" he admonished, shaking his head.  
"Oh, you're no fun," she said, abruptly pulling his hair and squirming out of his arms. "Can't he learn responsibility later?" she asked. "It's Christmas, Duncan."  
"Yes, and there are at least half a dozen packages in the top of our bedroom closet with Richie's name on them--"  
"Just clothes and things," Tessa pouted. "Things he needs. Things we would buy for him anyway."  
"There's nothing wrong with getting things you need for Christmas."  
"Then we can get him--"  
"No motorcycle, he said firmly. "I mean it, Tess."  
"Oh, pooh," she said, turning her back to him.  
"Pooh?" he echoed in disbelief. "Pooh? As in 'Winnie the Pooh'?"  
"Pooh as in I don't know what," she responded, unwilling to be teased at the moment. "Just pooh."  
"Tessa--"  
"Hey, guys, what'cha know?"  
Richie appeared, grinning in the doorway that connected the apartment to Tessa's workshop and the alley beyond, careful--for a change, Duncan noted--to stamp the worst of the damp and muck from the soles of his street hikers before stepping from the poured concrete floor of the workshop onto the living area's pile carpet. "Betcha anything we get snow, Mac--you should see it out there!" He hesitated, sensing the tension between them as he came into the room. "Uh . . . Bad timing?" he asked, catching MacLeod's eye.  
"It's nothing," the immortal said, but Tessa hadn't turned to greet him when he'd entered, and that said more than Mac's casual denial that anything was wrong.  
"Oookay," Richie responded. "So, um . . . here's lunch," he offered, hefting the bag of Chinese take-out he'd been sent for. The words hung in the air as if they'd never been spoken. "Tessa?" he said, trying again. "Lunch?"  
Tessa turned gracefully on her heel. "Thank you, Richie," she said. "I'd love some lunch." She snagged the bag from his hand, heading toward the kitchen without so much as a glance at Duncan MacLeod.  
Oh, yeah, Richie thought as Tessa banged and rattled dishes and silverware, setting three plates on the counter with something more than her usual crisp efficiency. Sure looks like nothing to me, boss. He was, however, smart enough to keep his mouth shut on the subject.

  
Scene 2

  
  
Two days later he and Angie cut classes after lunch and were trudging from store to store at Seacouver's newest mall in pursuit of what was beginning to seem like an impossible cause to Richie. What in the world did you get the world's classiest lady for Christmas, he asked himself for the umpteenth time, not to mention a 400-year-old James Bond-type who'd definitely been there and done that more than once? Angie was beginning to tire of Richie's inability to make up his mind, a fact that was evident in the way she was starting to nibble at the fingernails she'd stopped biting--again--not more than a week before so they'd look half-way decent with polish for whatever shindig she was hoping to get invited to over the holidays.  
"I don't know what the big deal is, Richie," she announced for the second time in the hour, hand on her hip, elbow cocked aggressively. "It's just a couple of Christmas presents."  
"Yeah, I know," he said, unwilling to admit to her exactly how much it mattered to him that he find the right things for Mac and Tessa.  
"Hey, look," she said, her voice pitched to be heard over the general babble of shoppers' voices around them. She grabbed him by the hand and dragged him toward what looked like an over-sized wheelbarrow adorned with boxes and baskets of all sorts, set up in the mall's walkway so you were bound to notice it. "MacLeod's Scotch, isn't he?" she asked, and Richie cringed, remembering the Highlander's often-repeated lectures on the difference between being Scotch ("A drink you're too young for") and Scots ("A person whose ancestors are from Scotland"). "There you go," Angie continued, oblivious, and Richie followed her pointing finger.  
"Licorice?" he said dubiously.  
"Sure, look," Angie responded. "They're Scottie dogs--black licorice Scottie dogs."  
"Help you, son?" The clerk was a rotund little man with a mustache and a green apron with the name "Roland" machine-embroidered on it. He looked first at Angie and then at Richie. "Our Licorice Laddies are sure to please almost anyone in their colorful tartan tin--"  
"Anyone who likes licorice, anyway," Angie deadpanned, earning a disapproving look from Roland.  
"I don't know," Richie said, shoving both hands into the front pockets of his jeans. He shrugged, smiling with practiced innocence. "I don't even know if Mac likes licorice," he said apologetically.  
"Well, perhaps our North Pole Candy Dish," Roland said. He reached for a cardboard box sealed in shrink-wrap, holding it under Richie's nose.  
Stepping back half a pace, Richie found himself looking at a white plastic igloo decorated with painted bows and holly wreaths, penguins swarming over the top and around the base.  
"Only $16.99," Roland said, "and virtually unbreakable."  
If there was anything in the world more un-MacLeod like, Richie couldn't imagine what it might be. "No, I don't think so," he said, backing away another step. "Thanks anyway."  
One more step back and he collided with a woman carrying half a dozen shopping bags looped over her arms, with two little kids in tow. With his hands deep in the front pockets of his jeans he went down hard on the highly polished floor, unable to catch himself. He smacked one elbow painfully on the floor, numbing the joint and knocking the woman and her daughter to the floor as he fell, painfully aware of Angie's sudden outburst of laughter, quickly stifled as she clapped both hands over her mouth like a child herself.   
Apologizing profusely, Richie helped the woman and the sobbing girl up, still aware of Angie's stifled laughter to his right, and of Roland's pained expression as he pointedly ignored Richie and the confusion he'd caused. The woman was glaring at him like he'd fallen on top of them on purpose, and the little girl was gasping out terrified sobs, seemingly unable to stop, while her brother stood nearby, rolling his eyes in disgust.  
"I'm real sorry, lady," Richie said. Understandably, the woman was miffed about being knocked down and didn't have much to say to him despite his apologies. He helped her to guide the crying child to a bench that looked like it belonged in a park somewhere instead of the middle of a shopping mall, and then stood uncertainly, waiting for the child to catch her breath and stop bawling.  
"Hey, look," he coaxed from a distance. "Look--you're okay. See, nothing's broken. You're fine, see?" He'd just started to call Angie, figuring she might know more than he did about crying kids, when he realized she'd turned her back on the scene and was slipping through the curious crowd like she's never seen him before in her life. Richie was just about to call her back when he looked up and spotted the black shirts and gray trousers of mall security bearing down on the scene.  
"Danny, where's my watch?"  
"What?"  
Her attention diverted from her daughter, the woman stood suddenly, grasping her left wrist. "Danny, quick," she said, addressing her son. "My watch is missing. Look for my watch. Oh, for heaven's sake, Pamela, you're not hurt!"  
Smirking just a bit, Danny turned to scour the immediate area for the missing wristwatch while Richie tried to explain to the two security guards he'd accidentally knocked down two of their paying customers.  
The rent-a-cops had just started taking names when Danny ducked under his mother's elbow and announced, "Can't find it, Mom."

"He stole my watch."  
"Excuse me?" the officer nearest Richie said, pencil poised. His nametag--pinned on, not embroidered--read Dearborn in tiny, engraved, no-nonsense letters.  
"He stole my watch!"   
"Are you sure?" Quick look at the notepad, double-checking the woman's name, followed by a carefully neutral glance toward Richie. "You didn't say anything about a theft, Mrs. Gerber."   
"I didn't take her watch," Richie protested. "I just bumped into her! I knocked her down. It was an accident."   
"My watch is missing and I want him searched," Mrs. Gerber insisted.   
Officer Dearborn's partner was frowning. Her name tag, pinned somewhat higher on her uniform than Dearborn's, read Curtis in the same no-nonsense letters. "I think we should take this to the office, Mrs. Gerber," she interposed. "Is that okay with you, son?"   
Richie almost informed her that she wasn't his mother, but he thought better of if, picturing a certain Scot's predictable reaction. He shrugged instead. "I didn't take anybody's watch," he said stubbornly.  
"Fine, son," Dearborn said smoothly. "We'll just call your folks and get this whole thing sorted out."  
Curtis and Dearborn exchanged glances the way people do when they've known each other a long time. "I'll check out the area," Curtis said. "You wanna escort them to the office?"   
"No problem."   
"That's easy for you to say," Richie muttered under his breath.

Scene 3

Right up until the time MacLeod actually walked into the mall's security office, Richie didn't think he could feel any worse than he already did. Mrs. Gerber maintained a rigid position on the room's only other chair, glowering at him as Danny and Pamela shuffled around restlessly, boredom taking its toll. Thankfully, Tessa arrived with Mac, immediately crossing the room to sit next to Richie, reaching automatically to rest one open palm gently against the side of his face. She whispered his name, her eyes searching his face, earning a disapproving look from Mrs. Gerber, but Richie was too embarrassed to meet Tessa's eyes. After one look in their direction, Mac bellied up to the counter, getting Officer Curtis' instant and undivided attention.   
"Mr. Ryan?" she asked.   
Richie looked up, confused, but MacLeod only shook his head slightly. "MacLeod," he said. "Duncan MacLeod."   
Shaken, not stirred, Richie thought irrelevantly.  
"Oh," Curtis said. "You're--"   
"Responsible for young Mr. Ryan here."   
Who obviously can't be trusted to be responsible for himself, Richie thought miserably.   
Curtis did something on her side of the counter to open the gate that separated officialdom from the waiting area and admitted the Scot to the inner sanctum. "Mrs. Gerber?" she invited, and with a sniff Mrs. Gerber went in as well, steering clear of Richie as she passed, as if he were somehow contagious.   
Richie watched through the glass half-walls of the office beyond as Dearborn rose from his desk and first nodded to Mrs. Gerber and then shook hands with MacLeod. Absurdly comforted by Tessa' presence even if he wouldn't have admitted it, Richie watched the scene taking place beyond the glass, reminded eerily of watching television with the sound turned off--the two uniforms reserved and business-like, obviously recounting the facts; Mrs. Gerber gesturing angrily; and Mac listening attentively all the while, glancing over his shoulder occasionally to frown at Richie.  
A moment later Mac opened the door to the office and stepped half out. "Richie," he called.   
"It will be all right," Tessa said, squeezing Richie's hand as the teenager stood.   
Fumbling with the latch that opened the gate, Richie felt the blood rising to heat his face, realizing only then that Tessa had followed him through to the inner sanctum and stood in the doorway, MacLeod moving to make room for them both.   
"What's this about stealing a watch?" Mac asked.   
"I told you!" Mrs. Gerber snapped.   
"Richie wouldn't steal anyone's watch!" Tessa snapped, raking her eyes accusingly over the two security guards. "Tell them!"   
"I didn't take her watch," Richie muttered. "I knocked her down, her and the little girl. It was an accident, Mac, honest." Reluctant but stubborn, Richie met MacLeod's eyes, flushing red to his roots, remembering they'd first met the night he had broken into MacLeod and Noel Antiques to take whatever wasn't nailed down.   
"We'd like your permission to search the boy, Mr. MacLeod," Officer Dearborn said.   
"That's ridiculous!" Tessa protested. "Richie's told you he didn't take anything!"   
"Then he won't mind turning out his pockets, will he?" Mac said easily. "Now, Richie."   
It was an order, and nothing Richie said or did would get him out of it. Too embarrassed to meet MacLeod's eyes and painfully aware of Mrs. Gerber's eyes drilling into him, the boy swallowed painfully and started emptying his jeans pockets out onto the desk. His motorcycle key, keys to the store and to the back door of the studio, a spare key to Tessa's car, half a roll of candy Lifesavers, a scrap of paper in Mac's handwriting with Wednesday's Chinese take-out order on it--bit by bit he pulled it all out, turning the pocket linings out as well, letting them see there was nothing hidden.  
"What about his jacket?" demanded Mrs. Gerber.  
"The jacket, too, Richie," MacLeod said.  
Sighing, Richie obeyed, emptying out each pocket. A moment later $1,623.16 cents lay on the desk in coins and wadded up bills.   
"You little thief!" Mrs. Gerber gasped.   
"Richie," Tessa breathed.   
"That's a lot of money for a boy your age," Dearborn said quietly.   
"It's all mine," Richie said. "It's what I saved over the summer, Mac, from working part-time in the store. It's for your birthday, and for Christmas shopping."   
For the first time since they'd known each other, Richie noted, Duncan MacLeod seemed not to know quite what to say.   
Finally, the Scot looked at the security officers. "You can see for yourselves, there's no wristwatch," he said.   
"There has to be," Mrs. Gerber snapped.   
Dearborn and Curtis exchanged glances. "We should pat him down," Curtis said, "with your permission, of course."   
"Richie?"  
Sighing, Richie hardly noticed that his name had come out not as the usual command, but as a question. Nodding, Richie held his arms out from his body, standing patiently while Officer Curtis patted down his pockets and then squatted briefly to run her hands down each pants leg in a quick and efficient search.  
"Nothing," she said, meeting her partner's eyes, and Dearborn nodded.   
"This is absurd," Mrs. Gerber snapped. "Totally absurd. This boy stole my watch and you're just going to let him go!"   
"Richie didn't steal anything," MacLeod said levelly. "Not only has he told you that, but he's done everything anyone reasonably could do to convince you of it. It's over now. Pick up your money, Richie, we're going home."   
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Ryan," Officer Curtis murmured as Richie shoved cash back into his pockets, his face burning. "Our apologies for detaining you unnecessarily, and for any embarrassment you may have been caused. Mr. MacLeod--thank you for your assistance. Sorry to have brought you down here without cause." 

Scene 4

"Sixteen hundred dollars?" MacLeod said, not for the first time.   
Sighing, Richie slid a little further down in the wing-backed chair Mac kept for customers in the antique store's office. The ride home had been bad enough, but Richie hadn't realized exactly how angry the Scot was until they had arrived at the store and Mac had closed the door to the office, separating them not only from the store itself, but from Tessa, who was busy with a customer there. The money in question lay between Richie and Mac on the desk, looking every bit as grungy and miserable as Richie felt.   
"What in the world were you thinking, walking around with that much cash on you?" Mac continued.   
"It's mine," Richie grumbled.   
"I know it's yours, Richie. That's not the point. That much money belongs in the bank, not in your jeans pocket, for heaven's sake. It isn't safe to carry that much on you, for one thing. And for another, sixteen hundred dollars is far too much to spend on a few Christmas presents."   
"And a birthday present," Richie added defensively.   
Mac set his jaw in the way that meant he was not going to say what he was thinking. "Even with the added expense of a birthday present," he said slowly, "it's far too much money. Richie--I know this is a cliche, but the fact of the matter is . . . well . . . it really is the thought that goes into a present that counts, not how much it costs. Tessa would be just as thrilled with a pair of $40 ear rings as she would be with a pair of $4,000 ear rings--not because of what they cost, but because they come from you. You can see that, can't you?"  
"Yeah."  
"I mean it, Richie--it isn't important how much something costs. What's important is the pleasure your gift gives the other person." Mac just stood there looking at him, not quite shaking his head in disbelief.  
"All right," he said, picking up the wad of crumpled bills. He smoothed them out as Richie watched, then counted out $1400 dollars. He folded the bills in half and tucked them in the breast pocket of his shirt. "This goes into the bank tomorrow morning," he said. "In a savings account, in your name, for you."  
Carefully and deliberately, making sure he had Richie's full attention, he counted out the rest of the money. "That leaves $223.16. More than enough for the three or four presents. And if you go over that budget, you have one more paycheck coming between now and Christmas."  
He held the money out and Richie sat there for a moment, just looking at him, nothing showing in his face. After a few seconds Richiestraightened in the chair and took the money out of MacLeod's hand, crushing the bills into a wad again as he shoved them into his jeans pocket.  
"We done now?"   
"Not quite."  
Richie sat there, elbows on knees, waiting.   
"You cut school this afternoon, too, you know," Mac pointed out.   
"You want me to say I'm sorry? That I won't do it again?"   
"What I want, Richie, is for you to abide by the agreement we already have. You go to school and pull at least an average grade in all of your classes. You work in the store twenty hours a week and earn a fair wage. You treat Tessa and me with courtesy and respect, and we treat you the same way."   
"Yeah. Right."   
Mac opened his mouth to say something, then just shook his head. "Okay," he said. "Go on. We'll talk some more later." 

Scene 5

"So, did MacLeod lower the boom, or what?" Angie asked Richie that night on the phone.   
"Mostly 'or what.' "   
"You're not grounded or anything?"   
"Nope. Just chewed me up and spit me out."   
"I'm sorry I ran out on you, Richie," she said. "You know how it is, though--you see rent-a-cops bearing down on the scene and you make yourself scarce."   
"I know."   
"No hard feelings?"   
"Nah. No hard feelings. Hey--I've got some reading to do."   
"Me, too. American Government."   
"I've got Western Lit. Julius Caesar."   
"Oh gag. I've got to read it next semester."   
"Yeah, well, maybe I'll just go ask Mac what he was really like," Richie mused.   
"Huh?"   
"Inside joke. Gotta run." 

Scene 6

"You took his money?" Tessa repeated, staring at MacLeod in disbelief. "Mac! You can't do that!"   
MacLeod dropped the bills onto the top of the dresser and then moved to sit on the edge of the bed next to her, starting to pull off his boots. "Tessa, I didn't steal it," he said reasonably. "I'm going to put it in the bank tomorrow and start a savings account for him."   
"And you don't think that should be his decision? It's his money. If he doesn't want to put it in the bank, you have no right to make him."   
"Someone has to teach him good economic habits, Tessa."   
"And what about respect for another's wishes and decisions?"   
"Tess--"  
"No! You listen to me, Duncan MacLeod--that's Richie's money. He earned it. What he does with it, as long as it's not illegal, is up to him."   
"Sixteen hundred dollars is too much money for a teenager to spend on Christmas presents--"   
"I agree, but he obviously does not. Did you even talk to him about it, ask what his plans were?" He said nothing, and she shook her head. "You tell him he has to act with courtesy and respect, and then you do this! Sometimes I don't understand you at all!"   
"Tessa--"   
"I want you to promise me that you will talk to him tomorrow."   
"I've already talked to him."   
"No, you told him what you were going to do and you told him what he was going to do. That's not talking, Duncan, that's ordering. You can't order Richie like he was Chinese food!"   
She was right, of course. If Richie was to learn respect, he had to be treated with respect. But it was also important for him to learn good money habits, and that meant he needed to understand the importance of saving money. And the best way to teach him that value was to put this $1400 in savings, add another $100 or so to it every month for several more months, and then take him shopping for the motorcycle he wanted. He'd see the link between the discipline of saving and the benefit of obtaining his goals--and the fact that he'd already tucked away a substantial amount for a boy his age meant that he was well on his way to having learned the lesson already. The trick was to prevent him from blowing the money on a dozen presents that would undoubtedly be from the heart, but that would cost him more than was practical or prudent for someone of his means.   
Mac smiled and dropped his shirt on the foot of the bed. "I'm going to take a shower," he said. He smiled at her, but it was obvious from the look on her face that they were far from having reached an agreement about Richie. And that, of course, meant that suggesting she join him in the shower was out of the question. Well, he'd known taking a young pre-immortal into his home was going to complicate things. He thought about trying to make a joke of it, glanced at her face and thought better of it. He just hadn't counted on how complicated things were going to get. He sighed and headed for the shower. 

Scene 7

Christmas was ten days away when Richie found himself at the mall again. Ten shopping days until Christmas, he thought, and half that to Mac's birthday on the twenty-first. He had to come up with a decent birthday present for MacLeod and Christmas presents for Mac and Tessa, all on the budget Mac had imposed on him.   
The problem, of course, was that Richie had spent most of his life on the outside looking in. Sometimes he felt like that kid in "Scrooge"--when his father asked him which toy he wanted most he said he wanted all of them. The answer had made perfect sense to Richie. Since the kid couldn't have any of them, there was no harm in wishing for all of them, was there?  
As a kid, there'd always been something for Richie at Christmas, even if it had been the predictable but disappointing pair of new pajamas. One year, he recalled, they'd had horseshoes and horses' heads on them. He'd always dreaded the emptiness, though, of that moment when all the presents under the tree had been distributed and you gathered your loot into a pile and looked at the material assessment of what you meant to your foster family of the month. Oh, he'd heard all the lectures about it being the thought that counts and all the rest, but there was no denying his own sense that it really was quantity that mattered most, at least as a kid.  
He was about ten when he'd decided he was through with doing without and he'd started petty shoplifting and even buying some Christmas presents for himself so his would be the biggest pile. That first year, he'd put presents under the tree for himself, and when the social worker handed out everyone's packages he'd had twice as many as anyone else. For a minute or two he'd been thrilled. The exhilaration disappeared quickly, though, when he saw the other kids' faces and the look on the social worker's face.  
One of the other social workers had taken him for a walk later that day and said something about being glad Richie had the discipline to save up the money he earned from doing chores, and how it was a good feeling to be able to buy the things he wanted with him own money. The underlying message, though, had been clear enough, and after that he'd developed the habit of hiding little things away for himself and opening them only when he was alone, so no one else would question the need the presents filled.  
He'd carefully open the deck of cards, the bag of candy, or the paperback book and pocketknife he'd bought for himself and wrapped in a scrap of someone's leftover paper, or maybe even swiped a bow for, already knowing from the shape of the package what each held. It had become a ritual over the years, something private and necessary, and this year was no exception--the bottom drawer of his dresser already held three or four small things, wrapped in private in the variety of papers and bows Tessa had bought for the presents that would go under their Christmas tree. It was only since he'd moved in with Mac and Tessa that he'd begun to understand what quality was and he knew clearly that his drug store specials definitely represented the bottom end of the scale. Sure, they were good enough for him, but he couldn't give Duncan MacLeod or Tessa Noel this week's K-mart special. What was it Mac had said?   
"Tessa would be just as thrilled with a pair of $40 ear rings as she would be with a pair of $4,000 ear rings--not because of what they cost, but because they come from you. You can see that, can't you?"  
It had probably never crossed Duncan MacLeod's mind that Richie had never spent $40 on just one person in his life. Mac spent $40 on lunch for the three of them nearly every day of the week and never even thought about it. Richie had done the math, dividing the $223 Mac had allotted him by three and he'd had come up with about $70 each for Mac's birthday, Mac's Christmas present, and Tessa's Christmas present. And that was assuming he didn't get anything for Angie, who always bought something for him.  
All right, he thought. First things first. So today I'm not Christmas shopping, I'm birthday shopping. So what do you get the man who has everything? The only rule he'd set for himself was that whatever he bought had to be worthy of the person it was for. Mac and Tessa had opened their home to him and given him everything--including the shoes and socks on his feet and the clothes he was wearing right down to his BVD's--and he wanted to repay them in kind, not just in monetary terms, but with presents they'd genuinely appreciate and value. No 'Tis the Season kitchen towels for Tessa and no Brute aftershave for Mac. The more special the present, the more it showed people how you really felt, right? So where to start?  
Looking around, he realized he was standing across the mall's wide walkway from a fireplace store. Mac and Tessa already had a fireplace, but it did give him an idea. He'd already arranged with Angie's mom to let him crash on their couch overnight on the twenty-first so Mac and Tessa could have the apartment behind the antique shop to themselves for a private dinner and whatever they came up with afterward--not that he couldn't guess what they'd come up with, knowing them.  
In its own way, he figured, making himself scarce was almost as good as a real present, but the fireplace store's advertising had triggered another thought. The sign in the window showed a man and a woman seated on the floor in front of their fireplace, their backs against the couch behind them, each holding a glass of something no doubt alcoholic. Now, there was an idea. A good bottle of . . . something . . . for Mac and Tessa to enjoy together on Mac's birthday. Of course, the fact that Richie was underage and knew absolutely nothing about buying wine was a bit of a drawback, but it was the best idea he'd had yet.   
Curious, he moved down the mall toward the Wine Shoppe and stood for a moment, looking through the glass front doors.   
"You're a little young, aren't you?"   
Oh, great. Richie turned, first seeing the black shirt and gray trousers of a mall security officer. Only belatedly did he recognize Curtis, the woman who had detained him when he'd accidentally blundered into Mrs. Gerber and the little Gerbers. Curtis was smiling, though, and didn't look as if she were about to run him in for looking through the door of an adult beverage retailer, so he waited for her to speak.   
"I thought it was you," she said. "Ryan, right? I wanted to let you know--we found that lady's wristwatch. That night, when they emptied the contents of the vendor's wheelbarrow, we found it among some of the display. It must have fallen off when she fell. Anyway, I thought you might like to know."  
"Yeah, thanks," Richie muttered.   
"So, uh, what's with the Wine Shoppe?" she asked with a grin. "You're not planning to knock it over after business hours, are you?"   
He just looked at her.   
"Hey, look, I'm sorry," she said. "It was just a joke, you know. Not a very good one, I'll admit.. . . "   
"Actually, I want to buy a bottle of champagne for a birthday present, but as you've already pointed out, I'm underage."  
"Yeah?" she asked. "Whose birthday?"   
"Mac's," he replied. "You met him--the guy who came to bail me out the other day."   
"Oh," Curtis said. "I figured they were your folks--foster parents or something, I mean."   
"Yeah, I guess," Richie said. He supposed it was true technically. Mac had signed a slew of papers, anyway, before Seacouver's Children's Services office had okayed Richie's living with him and Tessa. "So, when's his birthday?"  
"The twenty-first."   
"That must be hard," she commented, "coming up with a good birthday present, and then Christmas so close on top of it."   
"Tell me about it," Richie said. "Plus, well, Mac's really classy, you know? He's been everywhere, done everything. It's not like you can buy him a tie."   
Curtis chuckled. "Sounds like my dad," she said. "He nearly died when I became a mall security officer. He's the brandy-in-front-of-the-fire type."   
"Mac is, too," Richie said, "but in a good way. I mean, if you bought him a tie and it was all you could afford, he'd love it. He'd probably even wear it just so you'd feel good, you know? But I want to get him something he'll really like and I don't know anything about wine and stuff."   
"Me neither," Curtis said, "but we can always ask inside, you know." She looked up at the clock on the wall. "Look, I'll tell you what," she said. "I was about to go on break anyway. Let me check with my partner and I'll see if we can arrange with the store clerk for me to buy it for you. We'll talk to someone who knows what's good and you can pick something out in your price range. They'll even gift wrap it for you. Sound good?"   
"Sounds real good," he admitted. "You'd do that for me?"   
She shrugged. "Sure, why not? As long as you promise me you're not going to drink the stuff yourself."   
He grinned. "Mac might let me have a swallow at home so I can see what it tastes like, but that's about all," he admitted. "He's a real stickler."   
"I did kind of get that impression the other day," Curtis said, smiling. A moment later she'd set things up with her partner and she and Richie were walking into the shoppe together. Curtis explained the situation to the clerk while Richie wandered around the store, looking at bottles and labels.   
"Hi," the shop clerk greeted him. "I understand you need something special for a birthday, and we've got a problem with you being underage."   
"Yeah," Richie admitted. "Can--uh--" he hesitated, unsure what to call Curtis. "Officer" didn't seem quite right since that was what you called real cops, but calling her "Curtis" seemed kind of rude, even if it was the name on her nameplate. "Can we arrange something?" he settled for asking.   
"I think the best thing to do is for you pick out what you want, pay for it now, and we'll deliver it to your home. That way a legal adult can sign for receipt, and there's no problem with selling alcohol to a minor. Will that work for you?"   
"Yeah," Richie said. "That would be great. Can you deliver the day of his birthday? That way I can surprise him."   
"Sure," the clerk said. "All we need is the date and a local address. We even chill it for you." That taken care of, the clerk asked him what he'd like to buy.  
"Champagne," Richie said automatically. "A bottle of good champagne."  
"Okay. Let me show you what we've got."   
There was a display of California wines and champagne--"Really quite good," the clerk assured him--but Richie shook his head.   
"French champagne," he said. Tessa was French, and in the movies people always drank French champagne. Not . . . domestic champagne. Domestic. That was the word.   
"It's more expensive," the store clerk warned him, "but I'll show you what we've got. These run $80 to $100 a bottle, and they have a reputation for quality. We have some good domestic champagne for about $20 less, though--"   
Richie esitated. Eighty dollars wasn't that much over his estimated budget. "How much is this one?" he asked, picking out a bottle at random.  
"$85 a bottle," the clerk said. "There's an $8.00 delivery charge," she added, "and tax."   
Eighty-five, ninety-three . . . and whatever tax came to. Close to $100. That was $30 over his estimated budget for Mac's birthday present. He hesitated. Mac would be perfectly satisfied with a cheaper bottle, but he'd never stinted on any gift for Richie. In fact, Richie had worried for awhile that an expensive gift would look like he was trying to impress Mac or buy his affection, but it wasn't that. He just wanted to get him the best he could afford. That was what money was for, wasn't it? Mac made no bones about insisting that Richie do his work, attend school and get decent grades, but at the same time he was readily affectionate with both Tessa and Richie and never hesitated to spend money for their comfort, their pleasures, or their needs. And for Richie, it was a way of saying things he couldn't trust himself to express otherwise. He nodded. "Okay," Richie said. "Send that one."   
He pulled a roll of bills out of his front jeans pocket and followed the clerk to the cash register, Curtis trailing behind him.   
"Someone really ought to buy you a wallet for Christmas," Curtis remarked, but Richie's attention was on something else.   
"How much are these?" he asked. Next to the cash register was a display of tall, elegant champagne glasses with gold rims. Two flutes were nestled inside a rustic-looking wooden crate on a bed of straw, with a sliding top opened halfway to display the glasses.   
"$23 for the set," the clerk said.   
Richie paused. He could just picture it. He'd present Mac and Tessa with the champagne glasses, and Mac would think that was his birthday present. Then, after Richie had made himself scarce for the night, they'd deliver the champagne, already chilled. That way, there'd be much less chance of Mac chewing him out for spending too much on his birthday present, too. "Can you arrange to deliver the champagne around eight o'clock?" he asked.   
"Sure. I'll just make a note on the sales slip."   
"Thanks. And I'll take these with me." He selected one of the wooden crates that was still sealed in its shrink-wrapped plastic and slid them toward the clerk.  
The clerk raised an eyebrow at Curtis, but the mall security guard just raised her shoulders in a shrug in return. It's his money, the look said plainly enough. Without a word, the clerk rang in the cost of the champagne and champagne flutes, added on the tax and then the $8.00 delivery charge. "That's $114.48," she said, "and the delivery is set for eight o'clock on the twenty-first."   
"Right," Richie said. "The twenty-first." He counted out six crumpled twenties and handed them over. "Thanks for helping me," he said to Curtis as the clerk returned his change to him.   
"Hey, no problem," Curtis said. She grinned. "You can buy me a birthday present any day of the week," she joked as they walked out of the store. "You've got good taste, kid. Expensive, but good."   
Richie ducked his head, hiding his grin as he walked out of the store with the champagne glasses in their classy little plastic bag with The Wine Shoppe's elegant logo on the side. He could hide the champagne glasses in his bottom drawer until he could find some time alone to wrap them. Of course, he'd have to ditch the bag--it was either that or spend time explaining to Mac what he was doing with a bag from a store he was too young to shop in, and that was something he'd just as soon avoid, thank you. 

Scene 8

"Where's Richie?" Mac asked the next day.   
"In his room, wrapping your birthday present," Tessa said, "and don't you dare stick your nose in there until he's through."   
"I won't," Mac said. The idea of a birthday present from Richie was an interesting one, though, and MacLeod grinned. He pictured a video of Die Hard or some such thing, no doubt indicative of Richie's idea of the kind of life Immortals led. If he concentrated, Mac could just feel the low buzz of Richie's pre-Immortal signature, dim and distorted by the walls between them, but there nonetheless. He'd known what he was letting himself in for when he'd promised Connor he'd watch out for the youngster. The fact that Richie was a handful and then some was just part of the package. And speaking of which—  
"Hey, Rich."   
"Hi, Mac. D'you want me for something?"   
"Are you working this afternoon or what?" Mac asked.   
The question brought a bit of a flush to the boy's face since they both knew he was scheduled to watch the shop that afternoon. "Sure," Richie said. "I just took a minute off to wrap a present--"   
"I'm just checking," Mad said. He hadn't meant to criticize; in fact, after the mess at the mall security office he'd gone out of his way to avoid getting at cross purposes with Richie. And Tessa, too, for that matter. "Actually," he said, "I was about to kidnap Tessa to do a bit of Christmas shopping on our own. Can you handle things by yourself for a couple of hours? We'll bring supper back with us."   
"Sure," Richie said. "No problem."   
It took them just a minute or two to grab their jackets and head out of the door, with Tessa tossing a motherly warning at him over her shoulder: "No snooping while we're gone, Richie--you know the rules!"   
"Yeah, yeah." He grinned, liking the way she fussed at him--or at least about this one thing--and laughed as they left the shop, watching for a moment as they walked side by side, one dark, one fair, both tall and slender and obviously in love with each other. "Yeah, yeah," he repeated as soon as they'd rounded the corner and he heard the Thunderbird's engine start up. He didn't exactly count to ten under his breath, but he came close. As soon as he'd decided it was safe to do so he threw the deadbolt on the shop's front door and hung up the clock-shaped sign they sometimes used to let customers know they'd just stepped out: "Back in ten minutes," the sign assured any and all. With a little luck, it wouldn't even take him that long.   
Feeling a tad guilty, Richie slipped out of the store to the apartment in the rear and let himself into Mac and Tessa's room. While Mac and Tessa respected his privacy and insisted he respect theirs, he'd been in their room any number of times. Tessa had made it perfectly clear that her closet was off limits during the Christmas season, though, since it was where she'd stashed a number of things she'd already wrapped to go under the tree. There was no sound from the shop in front except the Christmas CD Tessa had left playing, but Richie strained his ears, alert for any sound of Mac and Tessa returning unexpectedly.   
All he really wanted to do was to check the tags in a few of her things to make sure he knew the sizes she wore. That way, he figured, he could be reasonably sure that he'd get the right size if he bought her something to wear. Sixes and eights seemed to dominate, although some of her things were marked thirty-somethings--those, he guessed, she'd bought in Europe. It figured, didn't it, that the Europeans would have their own way of sizing things? For a moment he let his mind drift, visualizing himself living in Europe, having the kinds of adventures they wrote stories about. Yeah. He could get into that. Someday, maybe, he'd get to travel. Mac kept telling him he should see as much of the world as he could, and it sounded cool. Just him and his motorcycle, cruising around the continent. Smiling, he reached overhead for one of the sweaters folded on the shelf above. Another eight, with the instructions Dry Clean Only on the label.   
Knowing he'd never get the sweater folded right and put back on the shelf neatly without its help, he snagged the step stool Tessa kept in the closet and climbed onto it, concentrating on getting the sweater refolded properly. He was putting the sweater back in place when he saw all the presents. Holy cow. There were three with his name on them right there, close enough to touch.   
He was tempted to shake them but knew better. Tessa had a nose like a bloodhound for things that were out of place, and Richie wasn't about to chance messing up any system she might have set up. Maybe everyone's presents were organized together . . . yep--there were four more, all with labels bearing his name, all stashed together behind her sweaters.  
Curious, he looked around, hands deliberately and conscientiously behind his back to guarantee he didn't touch. If he stood on tiptoe, he could see another one that he'd bet had his name on it, too. Eight packages, all for him, and in good sized boxes, too. And there--over in the corner there were several more, one with Mac's name on it in Tessa's neat handwriting. He counted four in Mac's pile and felt an unaccountable pleasure in the fact that his boxes were as big as MacLeod's were. Not that size was a real measure of quality, of course, but still--he couldn't recall ever seeing that many packages all in one place with his name on them before since the year he'd put the presents he'd bought for himself under the tree at the state home.  
Carefully returning the step stool to its accustomed place, he closed the closet door and made good his escape to the store. His heart beating just a little faster than usual, he took down the "Back in Ten Minutes" sign and unbolted the door. MacLeod and Noel Antiques was open for business, and with a little luck no one would ever know he'd been snooping, no matter how unintentionally. 

Scene 9

Richie sat on the wooden seat of one of the wrought iron benches in the forecourt of the mall, $108.52 cents clutched in one hand. He'd overspent on Mac's birthday present, he knew, but the look on Mac and Tessa's faces had been worth it. He'd left the wrapped champagne flutes on the kitchen counter and had been slipping out the front door when he'd heard Mac's deep-voiced, "Richie?" from the kitchen. Knowing the Scot had found the first half of his present, he'd kept right on going, a grin on his face as he hopped on his motorbike and headed for Angie's house. He'd let himself in by the back door around nine the next morning and still beat them both out of bed. Tessa had come padding into the kitchen in a short robe a few minutes later, barefoot and with her hair up in a careless ponytail. She'd winked at him, making him blush and duck his head as he grinned back at her. Stepping behind him, she'd wrapped her arms around him from behind and was still holding him like that when Mac walked into the kitchen.   
"Have a happy birthday, Mac?" Richie'd asked.   
"I had a great birthday, Richie," Mac replied. He'd reached for Richie's shoulder and pulled him forward for an engulfing hug that left Richie blushing and Mac chuckling. "Who'd have guessed you were a romantic?" the Scot had teased.   
"Hah," Tessa had said. "I could have told you."   
Yep. A guy could go a long way, remembering something like that. Now, though, he had to admit he'd spent almost $40 more than he'd intended to, and that meant he had about $54 each for Mac and Tessa's Christmas presents, with nothing left over to get Angie anything. Payday was the last day of the month, but he was pretty sure Mac would give him an advance if he asked for it, especially if Tessa happened to be in the room when he brought the subject up. Still--after the fuss Mac had made about him needing to learn to save his money instead of spending it foolishly, Richie hated to ask. Richie wadded up his money and tucked it in a pocket of his jeans. He had spent about $40 on a few presents for himself and halfway thought he still had the receipts in his desk drawer for a couple of the things. If he returned the things he'd bought for himself, he'd have a bit more spending money, but he was still fresh out of ideas. Sighing, he shoved his hands into his pockets and began wandering the mall.   
An hour later he'd narrowed his choices for Tessa down to a couple of things. At one end of the mall on the second tier there was the neatest women's clothing store, and he'd found several things he was sure she'd like. The lady who'd approached him had assured him that a size 6 or 8 would be their "small" size, and that he could be assured they'd exchange any item if there was any problem, so he was pretty safe even if he chose the wrong color or style. For the last fifteen minutes he'd just been walking back and forth between the things he thought looked most like Tessa, turning the discreet price tags over again and again and doing a lot of calculating. Finally, he narrowed it down to two things--well, three, really, if he bought the set.   
One of the store's mannequins was dressed in a dark green pullover tunic he really liked. It had one of those draped turtlenecks.   
"It's a cowlneck," the clerk said, smiling at his indecision, and he was willing to take her word for it. The tunic was thick and fleecy, absolutely inviting you to touch it. Wearing it, he thought, would be like wrapping yourself in a soft, warm blanket. It was shown with a matching set of narrow leggings in the same color in some sort of velvety stuff. "Velour," the store clerk told him. "They are so comfortable, and they're both machine wash and dry."   
The tunic was priced at $56, and the leggings were another $28.   
"There's a sweater I think she'd like," Richie said.   
"Yes, I saw you looking at it. This one?"   
Richie nodded. It really did look like something Tessa would wear--it was a simple cream-colored sweater with a vee-neck and wide ribbing, and he could picture her in it with the sleeves shoved up about her elbows, looking relaxed and comfortable but unquestionably elegant. Funny how Tessa could make even a grungy old chambray shirt over leggings look elegant. "I just can't decide," Richie said, and the clerk smiled, nodding sympathetically.

"The sweater's machine washable, too," she told him. "Most of our things are." Since one of Richie's regular errands was to retrieve Mac and Tessa's dry cleaning every other week or so he gathered that Mac and Tessa didn't much worry about whether things were washable or not. If they weren't, you sent them to the dry cleaner's. Still, the clerk made such a big deal about it he figured it must be some sort of selling point, and his own jeans and shirts went in the washer every week. More to the point, the sweater was about $25 less than the other outfit.  
"Does it come in a six?" he asked.   
The clerk smiled and looked through the sweaters on the display. "The smallest I have is a ten," she said. "I could check in back, if you'd like."   
"Yeah, please." He wandered back over to look at the dark green tunic and leggings. When she came back out he was rubbing one hand down an arm of the tunic.

"I'm sorry," she said. "All we have is the ten or larger. This time of year, you know--"   
He nodded.   
"This is lovely, though," she said. "And I think . . . " she hesitated, checking for the sizes inside the back neck and waistline. "Yes. I have a size six in both the top and leggings." She watched him biting his lip and added, "We have a coupon book at the cash register, you know. I think this is one of the brands that we have on sale. The coupon would save you 15 percent. That would make the set about $70 before tax."   
It was still about $10 more than the sweater would have been by itself, but it was just about doable if he returned the gifts he'd bought for himself and stuck to his budget for Mac. Wordlessly, he nodded, and the clerk smiled, gathering up his purchases. "Will that be cash?" she asked, and he nodded again. "We have gift boxes," she offered, or they'll wrap it for you at the mall office if you present your receipt--"   
Seventy-five dollars and sixty eight cents later, Richie was headed home again.  
  


Scene 10

Richie sat in the middle of his bed. He had $32.84 cents left of the money Mac had allotted him. He'd unwrapped the things he'd bought for himself and rounded up almost $20 in receipts from his desk drawer and waste basket, braving the exchange counters of the stores he'd bought from. Thankfully, no one at the stores seemed to care why he was returning the things--they just had him fill out a little slip of paper, sign his name, and then counted out the money to him. Complete with the cash back from exchanges, he had a grand total of $51.46--roughly what he'd allotted for Mac's present before overspending on Tessa's. Not that he had any idea what to get the Scot, of course.   
School was out for the holidays at least, but the shop was busier than usual with people window shopping and a surprising number of serious customers walking out of the door with purchases. Richie had even been putting in some extra hours, working more than the 16 hours a week he'd promised Mac, aware the whole time that the extra cash would show up a week too late to do him any good. When Tessa knocked on the door frame and leaned into his room he started up, ready for her to ask him to run an errand or carry a purchase out to a customer's car.   
Instead she just stood there, smiling at him from his open doorway. "Come go shopping with me, Richie," she said. "We'll close the store and steal some time for ourselves, just you and me."   
It was too good an invitation to pass up so they did just that, leaving a note for Mac in the kitchen along with the promise that they'd bring home dinner.  
Tessa didn't have much tolerance for malls in general ("Only Americans could have invented malls"), so they headed to old town, where she could browse through a dozen small shops at a more leisurely pace while Richie tagged along. In one such shop with wooden floorboards and a rustic wooden staircase leading to a loft overhead she held out a red fleece top to him and asked, "What do you think?"   
The top bore the stylized silhouette of a moose across the front. Actually, it looked kind of like a charcoal sketch--he'd seen Tessa rough in exactly that sort of thing before starting to work on an art project, but he couldn't imagine her wearing it. "For you?" he asked cautiously, and she wrinkled her nose at him, laughing a little.  
"No, silly--for Angie. You haven't bought her anything yet, have you? I thought maybe we could all get her something together, you and me and Mac. She's such a good friend to you, we wanted to get her something, too.  
"Sure. I think she'll like it."   
"It's not too Christmassy, is it? I don't want to get her something that she feels she can only wear one day of the year."   
In the end they settled on a blue version of the top--"A little less Christmassy," Tessa said--and then she helped Richie pick out a blue denim shirt to go underneath or alone in warmer weather. At the cash register Tessa reached for the shirt, intending to pay for both it and the fleece top.   
"No," Richie said. "I'll pay for it. I mean, it's from me."   
"But don't you want to save your money?" Tessa asked. "Really, it's no problem--"   
"I know," Richie said. "But it's from me. I should pay for it."   
Tessa frowned minutely but nodded. Then, unaccountably, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. She did that sometimes, but he couldn't think of anything he might have said or done to prompt it this time.   
"Just one more stop," she said, "and then you can decide what we should take home for dinner. I ordered a present for Mac from a little shop just around the corner." They walked since it was so close, enjoying the Christmas lights and the briskness in the air. "Here," Tessa said.   
"Eximious?" Richie asked, and Tessa smiled, gently correcting his pronunciation. An oval sign swung from two chains overhead, a peacock in its center. "Distinguished Gifts," was written beneath the peacock.   
Tessa went right to the counter, introduced herself, and told the clerk she was there to pick up a special order.   
"Yes, of course. If you'll come with me?"   
"Richie, I'll be right back," Tessa called. She followed the clerk behind the counter and disappeared between two curtains hung in a doorway.   
Wandering around the store while he waited for Tessa, Richie had to smile at the kinds of things they carried. In one corner there was a real Christmas tree in a giant pot in one corner, decorated with hundreds of carved wooden birds, all brightly painted and all for sale. A dark wood table held a display of bright brass clocks next to a rack of coats that looked like they'd get you through the Arctic winter. Elsewhere one window had been made up to look like a ship's porthole and served as the backdrop for any number of things for the would-be or genuine mariner--barometers, tide clocks, sextants, ship models, all crowded in on a table with a rocking chair nearby, with a cotton throw decorated with lighthouses over its woven back.   
"Can I help you?"   
"Uh--no, thanks. I'm . . . just waiting for someone to pick up a special order." Why was it store clerks seemed to have eyes in the back of their heads when a kid like him walked in? "You've got some really cool stuff," he said.   
The man smiled. "We have some fairly inexpensive things, too," he said. "If there are any smokers on your list, we have a solid cedar humidor that carries two cigars. It has a hand-polished cherry finish and fits in a jacket pocket, just $17.00. You can even have initials engraved here in the store at no extra cost."   
Richie nodded, having no idea was a humidor was. The man gestured to some long, slim wooden boxes on the table in front of him, though, and one was open with two cigars nestled inside. Oh. Of course. A take-along wooden box for your cigars. Mac smoked cigars once in awhile, but Richie couldn't really see him carrying them along with him just in case the urge struck him. Still, he felt obligated to say something. "Nice," he muttered noncommittally.   
"If you see anything you'd like," the clerk said, "everything on this table is under $30. Just let me know if you need any assistance."   
"Yeah, thanks." Feeling the man's eyes still on him, Richie pretended interest in the items on the table. A gold-plated coach's whistle on a blue cord shared space on the table with a leather zipper case for your CDs, both "under $15" according to the little place cards next to them. Yeah, Richie thought. Under $15 always meant $14.98. Still--he had just under $30 left and it was just possible that he'd find something there that MacLeod would like. Not a humidor . . . He frowned a bit and reached for what looked like a pocket watch on a leather strap of some sort.   
"How's this work?" he asked, and the clerk turned back around to see what he was talking about.   
"Oh--it's a belt watch," the man said. He unsnapped the brown leather strap and slipped it easily around his canvas belt, snapping it so the pocket watch hung upside down against his pants leg. "It's for times when you need both hands free and a wristwatch would be in the way--"   
Like when you're toe to toe with the other guy in a sword fight. Not, of course, that you took time out to check the time, but still . . . "Cool," Richie said. It was, too. You just lifted it in your palm to read the clock face, and it looked neat hanging against the clerk's khaki slacks like that. Very distinctive. Very MacLeod. "How much is it?" he asked.   
The clerk glanced at the tiny peel-off sticker on the back of the watch case. "$24.98."   
He could even afford it. "I'll take it," he said. "Hey, Tessa, look--"   
"For Mac?" Tessa asked. "What a wonderful idea, Richie. It looks just like him!"   
"What'd you get him?"   
"It's called a ship's decanter," she said, meeting him at the cash register. While he pulled out his money she opened the white cardboard box she carried and showed him a wide-bottomed crystal bottle and stopper. "You know," she said, "for port or brandy. The wide bottom would keep it steady on a rolling ship--I just thought it was kind of romantic. Not love romantic--"   
"Like pirates and stuff," Richie said, and Tessa nodded, grinning wickedly. He laughed, sharing the joke no one else could possibly understand. "D'you suppose--"  
"Richie!" she laughed.   
"That's $26.48, sir," the store clerk said, and Richie surrendered the last of his cash with a kind of weary gladness. He could hardly believe he'd actually managed to find something for everyone--something he thought they'd honestly like--without spending more than what Mac had allotted him. "$2.98 cents change," the clerk told him, handing him his money. "Would you like a gift box?"   
"Please."   
Tessa was paying for her purchase when he noticed it.   
"Hey--Tess--look."  
She glanced at him and then, following his gaze, at the framed poster on the wall behind the clerk. "The Night Scotsman," she said, reading the legend in one corner. It was a poster of an old-fashioned engine and train, steaming through an unbelievably green setting of forests and rolling hills.  
"Oh," the clerk said, glancing over his shoulder at the poster. "It's the train that used to run between London and Scotland. This picture was taken somewhere around the turn of the century, when the Night Scotsman was the only train that made the trip. This is a print, of course . . ." He glanced at the store's thumbnail-sized price sticker, attached to one corner of the glass covering the picture. "It's $132, including the framing."  
And it would be great over Mac's chair in the antique store's office, Richie thought.   
Glancing at Richie, Tessa said, "Perhaps the poster is available separately?"   
"No, I'm sorry. The framed one is the only copy we have. You might be able to locate the poster through another shop, though--"   
"Another time, maybe," Tessa said as the clerk rang up her purchase. "So, Richie." She linked her arm through his as they walked out of the store and headed for the car. "What shall we pick up to eat?" 

Scene 11

"You sure you want to do this, Richie? I mean--selling your bike--"   
Richie nodded. So he'd end up walking for a few months. Carlos had talked about buying Richie's bike off and on for more than a year and Richie had decided to take him up on it. "You said $350, right?" Richie asked.   
"Yeah, but I didn't think you'd ever sell."   
"Look, three-fifty is three-fifty." Minus roughly $140, it was still $160 bucks to the good, and he'd be able to get the poster he wanted for Mac's office. "Besides, I've got some money in the bank now. With what you pay me for my bike and, well, I'm working regular now, so with a little bit of savings I'll be able to buy a brand new bike come spring. It'll be better all around."   
He was probably right, Carlos thought. In fact, things were better all around for Richie in general since he'd moved in with Duncan MacLeod a few months before. Richie had gotten into the habit of using a corner of Carlos' mechanics bay to work on his bike, and Carlos had taught him a few things about motorcycle maintenance over the past year, just helping the kid out. Since he'd moved in with MacLeod he looked healthier, was better dressed, and he'd become more talkative in general. Both MacLeod and his live-in lady--what was her name? Tessa something--had started filling their cars up at Carlos' station since they knew he'd befriended Richie. In part, Carlos knew, it was to keep tabs on Richie and to make sure that Carlos was a good man, but, hey--that just meant they were looking out for the kid, which was just what they should be doing. They both seemed like good people, and they'd done more than just create a job for him at their antique store; they'd made a home for him, too.   
"How are you going to run errands and stuff for MacLeod without your bike?" Carlos asked. "You think of that? It's not like he's going to let you use the T-bird every time you need to run out and get sandwiches or make a delivery, you know. And what about girls, Rich? You going to ask a girl out and take the bus?"   
"That's my problem, isn't it?" Richie asked. Not that he was exactly Don Juan, but he'd manage. "Besides," he said, "getting a new bike was Mac's idea. So you gonna take this one off my hands or not?"   
Carlos sighed. Richie had put a lot of work in on that bike and he could have gotten at least $450 out of it if he stripped it down and sold it for parts. But Richie didn't have was the built-in network of buyers Carlos had developed over the years as a mechanic. Still, he was a good kid. "You in some sort of trouble?" Carlos asked.   
"No," Richie said. "I told you--I just need some bucks for Christmas, and the rest goes into the bank for the new bike. So, you gonna help me out or what?"  
"You got the pink slip on you?"   
"Right here."   
"Okay," Carlos said. "Sign her over to me." He opened the garage's cash register and counted out $350 in cash. "If I find out you're in some sort of trouble you didn't tell me about, though, I'm gonna kick your ass. And since you're gonna be walkin', don't think it'll be hard for me to find you, either." 

Scene 12

It was music that woke him on Christmas morning. Barefoot and bare chested, Richie pulled on yesterday's blue jeans and wandered down the hall and into the living room. It was still dark, but Tessa had plugged in the Christmas tree lights. They blinked on and off, scattering their light amid ribbons and bows, reflecting off the packages gathered beneath the tree, especially those wrapped in bright foils. He could hear Tessa humming and singing in the kitchen as she puttered around, making coffee. "Hey, Richie. Merry Christmas."   
" 'Morning, Mac. Merry Christmas."   
MacLeod, predictably, was not only completely dressed, but perfectly groomed as well, pony tail pulled back neatly in one of his antique Celtic ties. "Tessa's making caramel rolls for breakfast," he said. "Why don't you finish getting dressed, and then we'll open some presents."   
Dressing was as simple as pulling on a tee shirt and some socks. Out of deference to Tessa's insistence on good habits he scrubbed his face and felt a bit more awake, but still nervous. He'd had "family" Christmases before, when he'd been placed in foster homes, but none had ever mattered to him the way this one did. It was probably the first time in his life, he realized, that he was more worried about people liking what he'd got them for Christmas than he was about how many gifts under the tree had his name on them. Of course, he had peeked just a bit, he thought with a grin--   
Tiptoeing to where the hall opened into the living room, he could hear Mac and Tessa's voices from the kitchen. Still in his sock-feet, Richie tiptoed back to his room, fished Mac's present from behind his open bedroom door and slipped back into the living room with it, his running shoes in his other hand. The framed poster he hid well in the back of the tree so Tessa couldn't see it and give away the surprise--it was kind of neat, Richie thought, to be surprising Tessa, too, though she was going to wonder where he'd got the money to buy it since she knew he'd been almost broke night before last. Still, done was done. When Mac and Tessa came into the living room Richie was sitting on the couch, putting on his shoes.   
"You be Santa Claus, Richie," Tessa said.   
"Oh, okay," he said, taking his place near the tree. He knew this routine, at least--Santa Claus gave out the presents, didn't he? One at a time, he pulled the presents from under the tree and they helped him sort them into three piles, one for him and one each for them, and one for Angie's two gifts on an arm of the couch. When everything had been sorted out Richie looked at the mound of presents sitting in front of him. "We don't have to--like--take turns opening, do we?" he asked.

"Nope," Mac said before the more civilized Tessa could rule otherwise. "Dig in, champ."  
There were the predictable jeans and shirts and even some socks, though they were at least cool socks--thick, soft wool for your feet and ideal for the boots he'd insisted on buying a few months ago--but there were roller blades, too, and a leather bomber jacket from Mac that was just too cool to be believed, and a thick nubby sweater that was, according to the card in the box, woven exclusively from the wool of black sheep. He had to laugh at that and then turned, mystified, to some sort of handheld fishing game-thing from Tessa.   
"So you'll at least know what you're doing when Mac drags you off to the island this summer," she said with a grin, bursting into laughter at the look it brought to the city-boy's face.   
Richie watched with a growing grin as Mac opened his belt watch and grinned himself, saying, "What a terrific idea" as he clipped it to his belt there and then. "This is great, Rich," he said, standing to admire it.   
"Richie!" Tessa exclaimed on a gasp. "Oh, Richie--it's beautiful. Mac, look!" She held the deep green tunic up in front of her and then hugged it to her, leaning over to kiss Richie. "It's so soft!" she said.   
"There are leggings, too, somewhere," Richie said, and they dug the box out together so she could open it as well.   
"Great minds run in the same direction," Mac said. "I think I came up with the perfect accent piece."

As Tessa pulled the leggings out and spread them on the floor so she could rub her palm over the fabric, Mac peeled the paper and bow off a small box and opened it for her, revealing a sterling silver heart on a slender silver chain. 

Mac and Richie laughed as Tessa gathered everything off and went off to the bedroom to put on her new things right then, Mac following her when she called, "Mac, help me with this!" 

By the time they emerged Richie had moved the framed poster out from behind the tree and leaned it up against the arm of the chair Mac had been sitting in. "What's this?" Mac asked.

"Last one, I think," Richie said. 

"Oh, no, no," Tessa said. "There are some more in the workshop. Richie, come help me, would you?"   
She crooked a finger at him and he followed her into her metal working shop, where there were more packages in a cardboard box. Tessa grinned. "I knew you couldn't resist peeking at least a little," she said, "so I hid these. Now you can carry them in for me."   
He lugged the box into the living room just as Mac peeled the paper back from the glass and sat staring at The Night Scotsman, balancing the frame on one knee.

"Tessa, it's beautiful," Mac said. "I know just where to hang it in the office."   
"I didn't get it," Tessa said. "It has to be from Richie."  
MacLeod looked at Richie, who was stooped over the box of presents, pulling them out and realizing in amazement they were all for him. "But you already got me a gift," Mac said, his hand going automatically to the belt watch suspended at his waist. "Richie, this is too much--"   
"I just . . . I wanted you to have it," Richie said.   
"That's why you sold your bike."   
"You sold your bike?" Tessa asked. She stared for a moment, and then looked back and forth between Mac and Richie.   
"I . . . yeah. I mean--well--since Mac wanted me to save up for a new one anyway and I'd run out of money. I tried to stay on budget, Mac, I really did--"   
"How did you know Richie had sold his bike?" Tessa interrupted.   
"I stopped for gas and Carlos told me," Mac said.   
Oh, right. Trust Carlos. Not that he could have kept it a secret for long anyway.   
"Oh," Tessa said in a small voice. "Then I guess you won't need these."   
Mac and Richie hesitated and then Richie peeled back the paper on the package in his hands. A carburetor. Three other packages also revealed motorcycle parts, leaving little doubt what was in the remaining two. 

"Carlos helped me get the things he thought you probably needed or wanted to replace," Tessa said. 

"Tessa buys me parts for my motorcycle and then I turn around and sell it." Richie shook his head. "Carlos has got to think we're nuts."   
"Well, if he thinks we're crazy we shouldn't leave him in any doubt," Mac said. He located Carlos' number in the telephone book and punched in the numbers. "Carlos? Duncan MacLeod. Yeah, Merry Christmas to you, too. Hey, can I get you to open your garage sometime today? I'd like to get Richie's bike back." He laughed. "Right. See you then. Thanks, Carlos." He pushed the disconnect button and smiled at Richie and Tessa. "He said he figured it must be some sort of mistake," he said. "He was actually very diplomatic about the whole thing. We can pick it up this afternoon around three. He sounded like he was having a pretty good time watching the three of us run around in circles."   
"Did he say how much it'll cost to get the bike back?" Richie asked.   
"No, and I didn't ask. You can pay him back however much you've got left from what you sold it to him for, and I'll make up the difference--"   
"Uh uh," Richie said. Mac and Tessa looked at him and he plunged ahead before he lost his nerve. "It's my bike and I'll pay for it. If you'll front me today I'll transfer money from savings to cover the difference. It that's okay, I mean."   
"All right," Mac said after a moment. "You can pay me back a bit at a time starting after New Year's."   
"You could just call it Richie's Christmas bonus for working in the shop," Tessa said.   
"I already got my Christmas bonus," Richie said. "I got you guys."   
"So," Mac said. "You want to take these things over to Angie's? You can try out your new roller blades."   
"And fall on my butt a dozen times between here and there?" Richie said. "Gee, I don't think so. But if you want to offer me a ride--"

"You know where the keys are." 

"I'm driving?"   
"If you're careful."   
Grinning, Richie disappeared into the office in search of Mac's spare car keys, and Tessa wrapped her arms around Mac's shoulders. "I think I rather like being Richie's Christmas bonus," she said.   
Me, too, Mac thought. Me, too.   
"You ready?" Richie called.   
"I'll be right there," Mac called. "Put on a coat, Richie!" He kissed Tessa and then stood, collecting Angie's presents from the arm of the couch. "We'll be back in a little while," he said. "If Carlos calls, don't let him sell you anything."   
Laughing, she sent him on his way with Richie and sat looking at the poster of The Night Scotsman while the Christmas tree lights blinked on and off amid the litter of packages and presents. It really was just about perfect, she thought. 

The End


End file.
